She gasped, and it tasted like green things, like Eammon. She heard his deep breath like an echo, felt as the Wilderwood melted away and left her Eammon in its place.
Mostly her Eammon. Mostly the Wilderwood melted away. But part of it wasn’t gone— it was in her. Wolves and gods, the lines between them not as firm as they’d once been.
Her eyes opened, and the world looked different. The colors brighter, like a freshly painted canvas. Her skin fizzed, and when she looked down at their clasped hands, she gasped.
A delicate network of roots pulsed visibly under her skin, spanning from right below her elbow to the middle of her hand. They swirled like ink, deep green against white. Her Mark, altered to represent the bargain she didn’t make as well as the one she did.
Her eyes rose to Eammon’s. He was still taller than before. Bark still sheathed his forearms, a thin halo of green around his amber irises, and two tiny points poked through his dark hair. They’d changed, both of them, crafted out of human and into something that could hold the whole of the Wilderwood between them, not just its roots.
But those eyes knew her. And when she met his mouth with hers, it knew her, too.
Behind them, where the Wilderwood used to be, there was only a plain forest. Autumn colors filtered through the trees, crowned with red and yellow leaves. It shone with the memory of magic, but there was none. All the power— the sentinels, the network that held back shadow— lived in her and Eammon.
She kissed him again, brushed her fingers against the forestcolored thrum of his pulse, and it felt like home.
Lyra’s voice cut through the golden shimmer they’d slipped into, a pocket of reality that ignored all others. “Godhood looks good on you, Wolves. Or should I call you the Wilderwood, now? Collectively?”
“Please don’t,” Eammon groaned.
Red turned, her smile sheepish. Lyra had an arm slung around Fife’s waist, keeping her upright. Her grin was tired but genuine, and she moved with only a slight limp. Next to her, Fife was quiet, eyes guarded.
His sleeve was rolled down, Red noticed.
“You’d know about godhood,” she said lightly to Lyra, stepping back from Eammon but keeping their hands knotted together. “Plaguebreaker.”
Lyra grimaced. “Not exactly the same, I don’t think.”
“Close enough,” Eammon rumbled, voice still holding a touch of that strange resonance. His eyes cut to Fife. The two men shared an unreadable glance.
Breaking away from Fife, Lyra rolled up her sleeve. Her brow arched, looking from Red to Eammon. “Unless I spilled a great amount of blood during the hour I was unconscious, I don’t think this should be gone.” A slight waver in her voice. “And what happens now, if I’m not tied to the forest anymore?”
Eammon shrugged, the movement a ripple of wind through treetops. “You lived long within the Wilderwood. You’ll live long outside it, too. Things once tied to magic don’t lose it easily.” His voice went softer, the flutter of a leaf to the ground. “Now you can make up for lost time.”
A grin picked up her mouth, elfin features brightening as she rolled her sleeve back down. “Well, then. I certainly plan to.”
Fife glanced at her sidelong and was silent.
On the hill behind them, Valdrek was waking up. Lear helped him stand on shaky legs, face a horror of blood from his head wound, though he seemed in good enough spirits. Eammon squeezed Red’s hand before crossing to the two men, conversing in low tones.
In the dry grass, Kiri still slumped unconscious, not stirring though her chest rose and fell. Next to her, Raffe looked down at the fallen priestess with undisguised contempt, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m putting her on the first ship to the Rylt,” he said as Red approached. “Shadows damn me, I’ll not show up with a catatonic High Priestess and tell them their Queen is missing. I’ll be dead before winter.”
Red pressed her lips together. The roots on her arm glimmered a faint gold.
“If Floriane gets wind of her absence, it will be chaos. And Arick . . .” Raffe shook his head, pointedly not looking at her when his voice wavered on the name. “Clearly, you have other obligations, what with becoming the vessel of the whole damn Wilderwood—”
“She’s still my sister, Raffe.” It came out harsher than she meant, and around her feet, the edges of the dry grass blushed verdant green. “I will find her,” she whispered. “I don’t know how, but I will find her, and I will bring her back. That is my obligation.”